


Home -  is where the levender smells

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Series: Inside the Revolution's Heart and Mind [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Activism, Colors, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Smells, alternative universe, and fluff, making masterpiece out of food, murder and deduction, revolutionary stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:46:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis has appeared because of the political unstable situation in France, the great amount of immigrants, because of Human rights and…No. Because of the golden haired Politics student, who can’t just  live and enjoy the life. He needs revolutions, riots, chaos, convincing that all of those will lead to the better world. The revolutionaries, even those whose attempts ended successfully, never built a better society. The History or Fate or hell what else used them as a working force, adding eloquence into their speeches and charisma to their characters. And people followed such leaders right into Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home - is where the levender smells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> Hello everybody. I am missing my best friend very and very much, who is now in Paris with her Ferre, so let's send greetings her verybody. I love you, my sweetheart, I truly do*
> 
> Excuse my English, it's my second language and feel free to point out my mistakes.

As you have known, every city, every town and even every street have its own unique smell. It’s not always only the smell of fresh bakery or a seductive hint of strong coffee, but something more unique, like a bouquet of memories, colors and of course smells themselves.

In Paris lives a group of friends. You must have heard about them. They call themselves “Les Amis de l'ABC”. If you want, you can describe this phenomena, using colors, smells and epithets, tasting like a traditional French cuisine, because after all, Les Amis have already become a piece of Paris and its life. The group consists of absolutely different human beings, who combine with each others in a strange, illogical manner, giving a perfect result. In color gamma Les Amis are red, green, violet, light yellow, deep brown, milk chocolate brown ( you know, that hint of brown – a bit light, but very charming) white, ocean blue, hazel. 

In smells, Friends will certainly remind you a palette of perfumes. Or maybe a bittersweet smell, coming out from the master chef’s workshop. 

But about smells we will talk later, if you permit me. 

One of Les Amis is an artist, called Grantaire. You probably saw him last week in a bar, talking loudly about the strange obsession of his life, named Apollo. What a weirdo, but he is a man of Art, so let’s not judge him. 

This Grantaire is now sitting on the roof of the building, where he is living, sharing the flat with another student. Oh, believe me, his flatmate is a perfect illustration of a Poetry and a Modern Romantics. As you remember, R (it is not hard to realize that “Grantaire” means “R”) is a cynic, who hides his romantic nature in the bottle of wine or on the canvas. He is a realist, whose sharp tongue could make excellent debates in the university club, but he is Grantaire. Jehan – his flatmate, is a Dreamer and a Poet; he doesn’t care that this sounds very silly or naïve. Just because Jehan’s personality is open to everything, no matter how strange it is. Grantaire comes back drunk and depressed and Jehan makes him tea and hold his tangled inky curls when the second one needs to pour out all his alcoholed grief (I think there is no such word as “alcoholed”, but I mean the grief with a taste of an alcohol.)

R paints and Jehan writes. Jehan always is in love with different aspects of his life: he cooks, makes soup, tries to draw and writes, writes and writes. He loves Grantaire, loves his bitter voice and thin figure, but his favorite part of his best friend is a hidden fire inside artist’s deep, dark blue eyes. The fire appears when he creates his masterpieces.

But they do not date, everything is platonic and awfully sweet.

Though Grantaire never likes his own works and throws them away occasionally (of course Jehan picks them up and hides, because our lovely poet is amazing).

Anyway, this story has become very silly and fluffy and as all of you have noticed, the real life is never like that. 

 

So let’s come back to the artist who is sitting on the roof. Right now he is making scratches as the evening Sun dances on his nose. Grantaire has just watched “The Lord of the Rings”, that’s why his hand is slowly creating an Elf warrier, who suspiciously looks like his obsession. 

He is sitting with his legs crossed a brush behind his ear. It is really hot in Paris, which is not very typical, but no one cares. Grantaire is wearing jeans shorts and nothing else. His shoulders absorbing the hot sunlight, leaving brown shade on the skin. 

His thing fingers keep drawing an Elf while his mind wonders above the paper, above his own figure and the sound of Jehan singing in the room below.

As you have obviously noticed, Grantaire has an obsession. When Jehan first met the artist he quickly learnt lots of things about it. The whole thing is about a man called Enjolras. 

 

Don’t sigh, it’s not a love story.

 

After some time Jehan has written in his blog (that particular page isn’t open for public, it is more like his diary) 

Have you ever thought what happens to the soul when we die? Or do we have the soul? Is it the most strange and unique part of the human being? Can it be that we die, but then reborn in the future? Is everything connected? Life, birth, death? 

 

The golden haired student would sigh and close the book with such ideas written in it. The thought about the human soul never interested Enjolras. After all he has his business. The recession in the EU, the atavistic student group, which tries to change the current situation in France, the confrontation between the racist groups, the… But I am not judging him, because I believe there is a good side in every one of us. And despite Grantaire’s dark mood towards him, I believe in Enjolras and what he is doing.

I want to tell you about this young man Enjolras, who throws himself in the centre of the conflicts, encouraging people to fight and win the true democracy. He is 22 years old, yet when you look at him you are sure that he is 17; the only son of his rich parents. Their opinions, the power and the amount of money were the main reason why Enjolras has tense relationship with his parents, especially with his father. Monseigneur Frederic – a wealthy businessman told his son that such thoughts in his young head would do no good for their family. Business is a game, a rather dirty game and very often you have to cheat just because there is no other rule for it. But Enjolras’s father isn’t a bad man. He loves his son and wishes all the best for him.

But the good old nature does strange things when it creates human brains. (R’s words) Enjolras’s mind is a melting pot of ideas, dressed with courage and the sense of a perfect logic. He doesn’t want to work in the same business as his father does. His brain is wider and his heart is more passionate. Enjolras is a leader of something big and important, which he hasn’t realized yet. 

“Sadly, the History has already known people with such character and beliefs. The Fate, the Time, the Human History itself used them, like chess figures in order to create the progress, to teach and give lessons, to ruin in order to build another kind of future. Because people such Enjolras truly believes that they can change something. I am a skeptic, so excuse my sarcastic remarks, but I’ve learned that there have been too many useless deaths in the name of the belief in a better future. The Future comes when it thinks is necessary.” Says Grantaire one evening drinking the tea on our kitchen. Strange, but we both noticed that there, in the small room was an amazing smell of lavender. It reminds me home. Our home.

“But Enjolras is Enjolras a hot revolutionary leader in the XXI century France, yet I have a strange feeling that I have known him or maybe heard of him before. When I look at his ember eyes, deep in his pupils I see the echo of the distant memories or events, soaked with beliefs, covered in blood. Maybe I am just a drunkard, but I have no doubts that Enjolras could be a leader of one of the French Revolutions and Victor Hugo could have written a book about him. What a shame, by the way, that he didn’t write a book about our good old France and her bloody fights and its legacy which is left for us. Yes, the book would be amazing, but tragic most definitely. That guy was a pessimist. Cheers to you, mon ami Hugo.”

 

 

 

Suddenly Grantaire’s phone rings rather loudly. Cursing, he picks up, looking closely at his Elf’s ear.

“Mhm?”

“R?” the cheerful voice on the other side sounds in Grantaire’s own ears. “What are you doing?” 

“Sitting on the edge of the tower, making the image of a great Elf king and thinking about the Ring of Power.”

“So you are drunk again. Man, it’s only 5 p.m.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Mind your language, young Hobbit. I am not drunk, I am just painting.”

A young boy not far away from the building, cries out something loudly, waving hand to his father. 

“By the way, could it be that you have watched all the seasons of the Doctor Who and now wearing the bowtie, Courf?”

The voice on the other side gasps. “How did you know?”

Grantaire presses the phone by his shoulder and leans forward to take another pencil. “You’ve updated your facebook.”

“Oh, that’s obvious. Three seasons in two nights. Matt Smith is hot.”

 

“Two nights? What a shame, my friend. An e-book “Notre Dame de Paris” in two evenings.”

“Could it be that you are trying to make me feel ashamed for watching series instead of reading books? I must say, that Doctor Who is one of the best British series, which have been filming since…”

“Yes.” Grantaire concentrates on his Elf once again.

“Since 19… You are not listening. Asshole.”

“Jerk.”

Courfeyrac – a student, who has just moved to Paris from the Uk chuckles. “So, are you going to come and introduce me to your friends?”

Grantaire makes a grimace. “The fact that we drunk together doesn’t give you a chance to become my friend, so get out of me.”

“Hey, that’s rude, you know. Come on, let’s go to that meeting. I’ve cheeked all of your friends are going to be there. Even that blondy one. It is Enjolras, love of your life, isn’t it?”

The artist puts away his drawing and takes the mobile properly. “He is just an ambitious guy with a nice ass.” He tries to sound not interested.

 

“Yeah, of course. I should have recorded your drunk speeches about him, really poetic one.”

“You’ve missed the main word, Courf “drunk”. I am not going to remind you the fact that you were going to kiss a fried fish, served to the old gentleman, sitting behind us.”

A group of tourists has noticed Grantaire on the roof and some of them wave hands. R smiles.

“I was drunk and the fish was tasty.”

“I have no answer to that.”

Courfeyrac sighs loudly. “Pleeease, let’s go. ”

“Do you want to use your terrific pick up lines on my friends? Because if yes, I am going to make you suffer. ” a strange, protesting noises appear in the phone. “They are horrible, not sassy and classy as you think, idiot.”

“….Okay. No pick ups.”

“Deal.”

 

 

Pitifully, but even such a cynic as Grantaire believes the golden haired Revolutionary Apollo.


	2. "Life is much more successfully looked at from a single window"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small chapter in which we are talking about Jehan and R and their weird kind of friendship)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my best friend Jehan, whom I still missing terribly.
> 
> Also the name of the chapter is a quote from F.S. Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" and I also have used the name of the song The Wanted "Chasing the Sun"

Now, we are going to look at the kitchen window of the artist’s and poet’s apartment. The room has creamy walls painted with different colors. There are bright stains of paint, there are shapes, slowly transformed into big flowers. Some lines are unfocused, while others are looking professionally good. Just because Grantaire was teaching Jehan how to paint and they were using their own walls as the canvas. But the result is rather good, believe me. The kitchen has a big window, which welcomes the Sun as well as the rain; warm lights and mysteries of the Moon. But this particular window has also one more purpose. Our friends live on the fifth floor, just under the roof and Grantaire uses to climbs down from the roof back to the flat, using that window. Imagine Jehan’s face and his protests when R does that. Sometimes awfully drunk.

This time Grantaire is perfectly sober, so without difficulties he slips his thin figure into the window, losing himself for a second in the weightless, white, almost see-through curtain. But then the wind becomes tired and movements of the fabric of the tulle suddenly dies, like if it was a child caught by stealing sweets before lunch. (honestly speaking, I have never understand why it is so bad, if kids eat sweets before lunch or supper). Grantaire’s mocking smile appears before the rest of his body becomes visible.

Jehan, God bless the poor fellow, slowly turns. “I am not speaking with you, R.” the artist tilts his head. “And you are not going to have breakfast. The whole month.” 

“Totally unfair, Jehan.” Grantaire comes closer and steals a piece of a pancake. But immediately regretted that, because it is terrifically hot. 

“Haha.” Says Jehan bitterly. “One day, I will be writing a poem about your death and believe me that poem is going to be the worst thing I’ve ever written, I will try my best to make it so.” 

Grantaire sighs heavily, walking to the nearest chair. “At least you will write about me. And maybe cry a bit.” He yawns, ignoring the look of the emerald eyes. “A lot. And Ferre will put a reassuring hand on your shoulder, while Pontmercy with a confused face say that he always loved me. And Courf will drink for both of us.”

“Mhhm. Who is Courf?” Jehan shakes his head, trying to pull away his ginger hair.

Before we allow Grantaire to answer (I know, we live in a democratic society or at least Enjolras think so and there is a right of speech for everyone, but I want to tell you about Jehan first. Grantaire can continue his whims later)

As I’ve told you before, Jehan is a Poet. His soul and the whole nature have a strange effect on everything around him, I mean in a good way. He is the student of Sorbonne University together with Grantaire. His poetry is regularly published in the university’s magazine together with Cosette’s photos (she is a love of Maris’s life, I think he has already told you that) and Grantaire’s pictures. 

Jehan’s body is very skinny, but that suits his ginger hair and emerald eyes. R likes to draw him, playing with colors. He says that painting Jehan’s hair is like drawing sunflower, because they both have the Sun, tangled in them with the taste of young leaves when you are trying to capture them on the canvas. 

As my best friend Stella told me, she saw these too in a small bookshop in Paris two days ago and Jehan was wearing light blue jeans, with his ankles visible. Sometime ago that fact in Jehan’s outfit was annoying Grantaire a bit, but then he admitted that it worked for the poet. Just because he is the most romantic hipster in the world in his tight jeans and big t-shirts with the most ridiculous prints on it. 

On the small armchair made of the redwood was sitting Grantaire with his head wondering in the old fashioned edition of Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby”. The laziness of the summer day was slowly climbing under his skin. What is more, the atmosphere of the bookshop was making the artist lost. The thing is that when you enter that place all the noises of the life and the city are becoming softer and somehow transform into a jazzy melody. The rhythm of the human pace becomes an echo of the music, sounding between the pages of books. 

Jehan was sitting near on the floor, leaning against Grantaire’s knees. Ginger haired boy was reading George Sand and sighed heavily when he noticed the phrase “I cannot believe in any republic that starts a revolution by killing its own proletariat." His gaze traveled to the window, thinking about Enjolras and his activist group. Jehan always wanted to take part in that big idea of fighting, though he realized the right in Grantaire’s words. But all revolutions start romantics, who fall first, while politicians walking over their corpses to build another monarchy, a better one. 

Jehan looked back at his book when he suddenly heard the loud sound of the book being closed with some force. “Let’s through a party, my friend.”

Grantaire, with shine in his eyes, glanced at his friend. The poet’s eyes traveled to the name of the book and then back to the ocean blue spots. “Unfortunately, we are not that rich, to run a Gatsby-ish party.”

The artist sighed and grabbed the thin wrist of the ginger, a bit freckled boy. “Then let’s go and buy some chip wine and a pizza and the rest of the world will find us, chasing the Sun.” Grantaire smiled happily and Jehan’s heart danced, because the artist was always in a kind of never ending depression. Though he hid it good, revealing only the tiredness in his eyes, when the dark spots of the pupils were like Dark Holes in the Space, eating the colors of his blue soul, leaving cold emptiness and sharp lines on the canvas. 

Hmm, I think I am telling you rather unnecessary information, don’t you think? Let’s return at last to our poor artist, who has been saying something.

“Courf or Courfeyrac…” Grantaire thinks for a second. “I always thought my name was weird…Is a guy I met two weeks ago in a club and he is really nice.” Jehan narrows his eyes and sighs, reaching for two cups. “I mean it, you will see. He has just moved from London, so he has that Royal English accent.” Grantaire smirks. “But he is nice and funny and today he is coming to Musain’s meeting.”

Jehan pours some water into cups. “Well, I believe in a good side of everyone, so I will like him. He can’t be worse than you, so it’s really going to be interesting.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. 

“So in 3 p.m we will go to that awful café, make serious faces, like we are interested in Apollo’s nonsense…Oh, wait a second, it’s me, who is going to pretend and you are going to be all serious for real.” The artist is watching Jehan with a suddenly cold eyes. 

The poet shrugs, his own eyes are warm. “Give him a chance, everyone needs something to believe in, R. Even you.”

The artist stands up and walks to his room; he troughs the piece of paper in the bin without a regret. Few seconds later Jehan takes that paper and looks at it. Then quickly hides in the pocket and walks to his own room.


	3. About colors, souls and jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter in which I tell you about Marius and his Angel, about colors of the souls and Combeferre's thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interpretation of the colors is not true, I suppose. It's how I understand them.
> 
> For my beloved Jehan, with all my love.

The weather in Paris has changed dramatically literally in one hour. Suddenly, sick grey clouds have invaded the innocent summer sky, eating the colors fast and merciless. I think you will agree with me that such a strange place as French capital city is beautiful in every form, but when it is grey, it is a unique image.

 

First of all, let’s ask Grantaire what he thinks about the grey color. He once had a conversation with young Pontmercy, when the second one was mumbling something like “black – the color of despair”, annoying Enjolras rather vividly. 

 

“Marius, for God’s sake, can please shut up, we are studying here!” The blond student hissed at the freckled boy, who was sitting near with an absent-minded face.

 

The group of students was studying in the Sorbone’s library, reading different books, feeling the pressure of the exams on their own skin. Combeferre, Enjolras, Grantaire and Marius were sitting around a small table; Combeferre was writing something down quickly, not really paying attention at the conversation between the rest of Amis. But he did shoot warning glances at Enjolras, when he was saying something too harsh at Marius or at Grantaire, when he was too sarcastic towards Enjolras.

 

“But, Enjolras, you are wrong. I can’t control my soul and heart…”

 

Grantaire played vomiting behind his friend’s back, but as Marius turned his head, the artist’s face became very serious. “But you are also wrong about the black color, my dearest boy.”

 

Enjolras sighed and returned to his book while Marius’s eyes glitter with interest; the soft lights from the lamps carefully illuminated students and their beautiful minds. 

 

“The black color has been never used as a color of despair. For that purpose we have grey shades.” Granatire’s fingers carefully touched the lampshade as he spoke. “Grey is for the sorrow, for the loneness, for the apathy, for the cigarette smoke and of course for the despair. Just like the dark green, I think.” Marius was watching the dancing shade on his book made by Grantaire’s game with the light. “Grey is a dirty white, it always reminds me of a fallen angels…” he paused, realizing that Combeferre was watching him. “Or other dirty shit, you know.”

 

Marius looked at Grantaire’s face.“Then how about black?”

 

Enjolras was reading his book, trying not to roll his eyes, when “the Artist” was talking, but his attention was already caught by that hoarse voice. He didn’t understand the cynic in such moments, when he was talking about Art. There was a huge difference between Grantaire and the cynic. Like a bloody Jekyll and Hyde.

 

“Black is the color of the night. Or the color of the mystery. The hint of the dream, we are having when we are sleeping, the shade of the most bright objects or people… In fact…” Grantaire rubbed his unshaved cheek. “it is not a color, because it absorbs others; it’s the opposite to the white, which produces seven basic colors.”

 

“You mean if we mix all the colors we will receive white?” Marius asked with a childish face, completely forgetting about his studies. Combeferre’s gaze traveled up and down Grantaire’s outfit. He sighed quietly.

 

“Not exactly. Scientifically yes, but not artistically, unfortunately. Anyway…” he yawned noisily, glancing at Enjolras for a second. “colors can tell lots of things about personalities.”

 

“Nonsense.” Enjolras twisted his lips, still reading the book. 

 

“Classes will dull your mind, destroy the potential for authentic creativity.” Grantaire said, leaning against their table.

 

Combeferre’s smile was small, but Grantaire noticed it. “Beautiful mind, right Ferre?”

 

“Yes, it was a good movie, thank you for advising it.” Combeferre finished his writing and put away his pen, while the man, obviously M. le professeur passed near them with three large books in his hands. 

 

«Tell us about colors and personalities, please. » Marius looked adorable. Like a little puppy. 

 

Grantaire smirked tiredly. «You know, Pontmercy, sometimes, you are even worse then Jehan with all his poetic stuff and awfull cuteness. »

 

Enjolras, who accidantly saw the face of the cynic at that moment was really impressed. Grantaire was talking about Jehan with the genuine softness in his voice. It was a rare thing. 

 

“Well, I can’t, because I am obviously distracting almighty Apollo from his very serious reading.” 

 

Enjolras met two pieces of ice at last. Marius made a “tsss” sound. “Go on!”

 

Grantaire laughed quietly and looked away from Enjolras. “One condition, you promise me, that you won’t talk about She Who Must Not Be Named this evening.”

 

Marius made strange, inhuman sounds, while gasping for some air. “You called Cosette Voldemort??!”

 

“Shhh, you silly, Muggle! You’ve already said 2 forbidden names!!”

 

Pontmercy tried to through the first-best book, which was lying near him, but received a punch on his hand, when he tried to take one of Enjolras’s Political tractate. Combeferre silently gave him his pen, which was immediately thrown in the Artist. “Ah, you’re little Peter Pettigrew, you know that Ferre? I trusted you.” Grantaire sighed sadly. 

 

“Just tell him the story, R.”

 

Grantaire sat on his crossed legs and looked at Combeferre, Marius’s excited face and at Enjolras, who avoided his gaze. “Once upon a time, God created colors. Just after he created people. Or when Adam and Eve started producing uncontrollable amount of kids…Can’t remember. Colors were made to identity people’s characters and personalities. They were and are now, actually, like the shadows from our bodies. The difference is that colors can indicate the dark corners of our soul while a shadow is only a shape on the ground. Lifeless and black.” 

 

A group of students passed them with worried faces, which reminded Enjolras that they were going to have exams very soon. But he just closed his “Philosophical Theory and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights” and listened Grantaire’s fairytale, feeling himself rather odd.

“Usually we don’t have just colors, there are mixes of two and more hints or shades.” The cynic’s eyes became alive and slowly the apathy disappeared. Now Jekyll is talking, thought Enjolras. “For Philosophers’ souls are used dark blue and aquamarine , because they are peaceful colorsl. For Poets, I think, it is violet or lilac with the yellow shades.” 

Marius’s face became dreamy. 

“Stop thinking of Voldemort, Pontmercy.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued, feeling a tiny little warm bubble in his chest, somewhere behind his heart. Just because on Enjolras face there was no annoyance, when he, Grantaire, was talking.

“Dark violet is for mysteries…and muffins.” The cynic suddenly heard his stomach, making pitiful noises. “Yellow is for tulips and spring, for softness and the first ever love. Ask Jehan, he will explain the feeling of yellow in the life for you.”

Combeferre tried to stop thinking about Grantaire’s words from the Psychological point of view. He failed miserably. And it was Grantaire’s fault after all.

“For you Pontmercy, it’s either lilac or creamy. Maybe both.” The cynic crooked his head. “Soft and dreamy. But I think silver is also suitable for your eyes…”

“Eyes? You were talking about the color of eyes??” Marius doubtfully raised his eyebrows.

“About character and personalities, you silly.” 

“But, you said ey…”

“Because eyes are the entrance of the human soul.” The sound of that voice made Grantaire and Marius stare.

Combeferre despite everyone else smiled gently. He always knew that Enjolras under his brave mask of the revolutionary was a romantic himself. 

“Well, done Apollo.” Grantaire turned to Marius again, still a bit surprised. The sky outside the library was slowly turning into inky-blue color with small sparkle holes in it. “There is a strange bound between eyes and souls, I am afraid. The smile can lie, the cloths can fake the opinion about us, hands can cheat, but not eyes. They are too powerful, too…” he lost himself for a second in the memory of the ember eyes, never daring to look at them in that moment. “mirror-like. It is a dangerous thing to become aware of all the secrets of our eyes.”

Enjolras was watching Grantaire’s neck as he was talking those strange things. He watched the Adam apple’s movements as the cynic spoke, saw how desperately he drunk the air between the sentences and felt empty, because soon the Artist would become bored of his own thoughts and Hyde would come back. Rude, cynical and cold.

“It’s ochre and chocolate brown for Combeferre. Like the warm autumn or the evening Sun.” dark blue eyes suddenly became tired, like the fire died inside them. “I am spending too much time with Jehan.”

Marius was sitting quietly. “I liked that, R.” Grantaire shrugged, still avoiding Combeferre’s gaze. The Philosophic student thought about his color. Grey and dark green. 

“And the color for Enjolras? Red?” Pontmercy asked, turning his head from Grantaire to Enjolras.

“Aha. The color of uncontrollable sexual desire.” Grantaire’s lips twisted in a mocking smile, while Enjolras silently opened his book again. “And anger or love. But most common definition of red is for brothers, not in blood, but in bound.”

The blond revolutionary wanted to punch the cynic so much. But there was enough just to look at him with disgust and not caring in his ember eyes. That caused Grantaire another hangover in the next morning and failed attempt to forget that look. 

 

Ah, do forgive me, I think I lost the thought. We were talking about…Oh, yes, the weather. It has turned into a rather nasty one quite quickly, when Jehan and Grantaire have decided to go out to the café Musain.

When two friends walk outside, Grantaire suddenly groans. “Jehan. Do you know what it is the day today?”

The ginger ponytail has become a toy for a late summer wind. “I hoped you would not remember that.” He smiled gently.

“The bloody anniversary. Why….”

Let me explain you why Grantaire is so irritated. You see, today is the day, when Marius Pontmercy first met Cosette Fauchelevant one year ago. 

Well, I think this deserves a little story, don’t you think?

Marius Pontmercy is not a bad person or a silly one. He is hard-working, but sometimes a bit of naïve. But that’s okay. 

Once he was walking down the street from his classes, when suddenly the rain started. Of course he didn’t have an umbrella, because it was Marius after all. So he had no choice, but to search a roof above his head in order to wait there until the rain would stop. 

He was just near the small café, so he ducked there, soaking wet. 

That café is one of my favorite places in Paris, of course after the Musain. It is old-fashioned and there usually sounds jazz. I know, I have a thing for that kind of music, but believe me, you would fall in love with the café immediately.

The place was deliberately made as a very small one, having only six tables. But they were always reserved and there were always lots of people. So is now, by the way. 

The thing was not only in that amazing coffee, the strange seductive hint of rich wine, the taste of candle lights, the touch of the armchairs and the curtains. It was all about the music. The place was breathing with the rhythms and the sounds of piano playing. The jazz was the language of that place, together with beautiful voices and the tart taste of the smoke. It matched the weather and people’s mood matched the music. 

And when poor Marius entered, how could he resist that strange, drunken and relaxing atmosphere. Suddenly, somewhere in the tangled cloud of the saxophone’s sounds and the cigarettes he saw a fair-haired creature. So gentle and amazing that next hour, when he was running home, he was sure she wasn’t real. The ghost, the spirit of Paris itself. 

But Life can be cruel. Two days passed until our freckled Romeo decided to overcome his fear and look at the Angel again. But they said him, that she was working there just for one day, because the singer, Eponine Thénardier was sick by that time.

But as we all know very good, today is the anniversary of Marius’s and Cosette’s meeting and falling in love. 

 

Don’t look at your left, please. I think there is Grantaire vomiting rainbow and fluffy ponies. 

 

I told you not to look, but it’s all your choice.

 

So. Jehan and Grantaire are walking to the Musain.


	4. When the day is done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, a bit of normal plot, instead of the silly fluff.
> 
> The name of the chapter is the name of the song. Some other lyrics have been used too.

The unfinished, full of smoke cigarette silently falls from the Artist’s fingers. The dark blue eyes widen with terror and scream has frozen in the throat. 

 

There are blood satins on the sidewalk,  
But the rain’s started washing them away  
Staring out at the horizon  
On those teenage summer days.

 

I think I’ve just spoiled the end of this chapter a bit. Yeah, I have and I am sorry. You see, my dear, I think I am telling this too boring, so I just tried to make it a bit interested for you.

 

So as I told before the Poet and the Artist were walking, heading to the little, old-good Musain, passing streets and shops and cars, tourists and museums, love and friendship, colorful umbrellas and creamy, pastel dresses. They were walking in the heart of Paris, knowing its secrets and mysteries. Well, they thought, they knew. 

 

Grantaire is telling Jehan about his new friend Courfeyrac, making Jehan laugh and smile. They have seen a group of street performers, who have been playing a silent pantomime. 

 

The poet’s eyes get lost for a moment in their bright costumes. It doesn’t matter that the group of artists is rather poor and their decorations are almost rubbish. Jehan is watching them and he sees romance and silly courage and laughs because that reminds him of Pontmarcy and a bit of Grantaire. 

 

And while he is admiring them, the cynic silently puts some Euros in a hat on the ground, because this is Art. Not commercial, but genuine, like the guy with a sign “FREE HUGS” near Mont Martre. 

 

Jehan smiles, his gentle green eyes are shining. “I always know you are a romantic yourself, R. Not that deep in your heart.” 

 

Grantaire jumps over a puddle on the pavement and smirks doubtfully. A couple of old people walk near them. A good-looking monsieur is holding the hand of his wife very gently and their movemnts are gracious, like the time has no power over them.

 

“We hung about the stadium, we’ve got no place to stay  
We hung about the tenderloin and tenderly you tell  
About the saddest book you ever read  
It always makes you cry  
The statue’s crying too and well he may”

 

Grantaire smiles as Jehan sings the song, walking down one of the street of Paris.

 

A half an hour later the little room of the café Musian is full with students. In the middle of the crowd is standing a young man with dark brown curls and a bright red bow tie. He is telling something quickly, waving his hands, making people around him laughing loudly. Courfeyrac, as you have correctly guessed, hugs young Pontmercy, greeting him with the anniversary. Then he hugs Cosette too and they have created a strange, human-like pyramid, slowly collecting others in their huge hugs. On Marius’s face has become visible a very interesting shape of red, when his body has collided with Courfeyrac and he has felt something hard against his hip. 

 

Éponine and Musichetta are laughing happily, chatting about something. Both of the girls have a tough period in their lives. Working long hours on different jobs, trying to receive money to put themselves together and pay for the studies. Éponine’s voice is a bit hoarse because of her night job in the jazz café and Musichetta looks exhausted, but for now they are laughing and enjoying the company. Both of them have their own secrets, but it’s not important now; they can hide them, after all.

 

Jolly, Lesgle, Bahorel and Feuilly are debating about something rather loudly. Once or twice they’ve tried to involve Combeferre, “a voice of wisdom” as Jolly has named him, to help them figure out something. Combeferre has carefully avoided those attempts. 

 

Jehan comes to a lonely figure, standing near the window, with a cup of coffee. “Hi, there Enjolras.”

 

The blond leader of the activist group smiles a bit, but it looks more like a grimace. “Hello, Jehan.”

 

The poet silently gives him the cup. “I know you don’t like such events, but Marius and Cosette have an important date and Courfeyrac is a nice and energetic person. Just try to enjoy the evening.”

 

At that same moment Courfeyrac has broken a glass of wine with a loud sound. 

 

Enjolras smiles again, but warmer this time, taking the cup from Jehan’s hands. 

 

His ember eyes slowly wonder around the room, which is full of yellow lights, merry cheers and silly jokes. But then he noticed cold spots of blue eyes. Grantaire is watching Enjolras, standing in the opposite corner of the room. Enjolras has no idea about the Artist’s thoughts. He just sips his coffee, trying not to care.

 

Courfeyrac collapses on the chair and grabs a glass of cola, feeling himself very hot. Then his brown eyes catch an image of Jehan sitting near. The ginger student looks a bit like Pontmercy with his freckles, but as Courfeyrac has already known, this man is not like Marius at all. 

 

“Jehan?” he suddenly realizes how stupid he has been acting himself for a last hour. 

 

Green eyes look at him and the smile quickly reaches them. “Yes?”

 

“Ehm… Nothing…” the British boy bites his upper lip. “Doyouwantadrink?” but then he coughs and tries to look all classy and sassy. “Do you want to drink something? Because you look bored a bit.”

 

Jehan tries to have that grown up face, but fails epically after three seconds and ends up giggling. Courfeyrac’s nose becomes pink, but he laughs too. “What? Why are you laughing?”

 

The poet pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Grantaire was right. I really like you.” 

 

And our hipster suddenly realized that he wants to sing something stupid and lovely. 

 

Grantaire sighs heavily and walks outside the café to smoke a cigarette. The wind catches his figure and starts annoying the cynic with its cold breath. But then the little sparkle of the fire touches the cigarette, letting it live for some minutes. Dry lips of the artist inhale the smoke, enjoying the bitter taste. His tired gaze wonders around the backyard of the café. A small place with…

 

The unfinished, full of smoke cigarette silently falls from the Artist’s fingers. The dark blue eyes widen with terror and scream has frozen in the throat. 

 

In the dusty corner is lying a man. Red blood is on his lips and on the t-shirt. A silly thought has crossed Grantaire’s mind. He feels himself like a passenger in his own body when he slowly makes several steps to that man.

 

“Vous allez bien?” Grantaire’s voice is scared. The wind plays with his curls. 

 

As he reached the man, he noticed a little thing on his chest. Near the blood stain there is a small emblem of their, Les Amis activist group. A rosette in colors of the French flag.

 

And when the realization of the fact that this man is dead has hit Grantaire’s mind, he runs back inside the café. 

 

He will think it was me. He won’t believe…He will hate me…Even more than ever. I am not guilty, I just saw that guy…

 

 

The wild gaze of the artist has been noticed by Combeferre. He carefully grabs Grantaire’s wrist. “Shhh, R. Look at me.” Combeferre’s fingers are warm against the cold skin of the cynic. “ Breathe and then tell me what has happened. Grantaire.”

 

Not really understanding what is going on, Grantaire meets chocolate brown eyes. “I saw a corpse. Just now…”

 

Combeferre squeezes Grantaire wrists. “Go on.”

 

Grantaire closes his eyes, a bit reviled that they are standing in the corner and Enjolras can’t see them. “I went to smoke and suddenly saw him. A-and on his chest…” he rocks his head violently. He hates his own weakness.

 

“Grantaire, it’s okay, all fine, continue please.”

 

“There was a rosette. Our rosette.” He whispers, not opening his eyes. “Enjolras will think I killed him. But I didn’t. Tell him, Ferre, he won’t believe me…”

 

Combeferre silently shakes his head. “We need to talk with Enjolras to decide what to do.”

 

Grantaire opens his eyes; his face expression has changed completely. “We need to make everyone go home, but not telling them what has happened.” Combeferre nods. “They all deserve to celebrate happily without the burden.”

 

Enjolras has reached them, on his face there is a suspicion. “Are you okay? What has happened?”

 

Combeferre quietly explains details to the leader, while Grantaire smokes another cigarette in the room, his hands trembling badly. The music is loud and the mood of the friends is good. But the corner is dark and blood is spilled. 

 

Grantaire grimaces when he thinks about that.

 

“Come on, we need to call police.” Enjolras says seriously. “But at first we have to…”

 

“Police? Enjy, did you just say police??” the cheerful face of Courfeyrac has materialized from nowhere. “Shit, R, you okay?”

 

Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire exchange glances, which cause a reaction. “Ah, of course. I am a stranger, a silly English boy, who has no business, here in France. I was afraid you would not think seriously about me. And it looks that I was right, but it is my fault after all….” The bitter in his voice makes them feel worse. 

 

Enjolras, after a second of hesitation, says. “Can you make them_” he nods on the crowd. “ go home, like nothing has happened?”

 

“Sure. I can organize a welcome party in my place. Why?” he unconsciously touches his bowtie, glancing at Grantaire.

 

“We do not want to scare them. Outside in the back yard, there is a corpse.” Combeferre says slowly and dangerously calm. “Can you protect them?”

 

The change on the face of Courfeyrac is amazing, just like the change which was on the terrified face of Grantaire some minutes ago. All of his cheers and smiles have disappeared. Eyes become serious and determined. “Yes. But as far as I know, they will be suspicious if R doesn’t come with me to the party.” He looks at his friend again. “Pretend you are very drunk and Enjolras and Ferre have to drop you home, okay, mate?”

 

Grantaire nods. “Make sure, Jehan will be fine, Courf. Please.” Courfeyrac’s eyes let the Artist to understand everything.

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk to the others, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone for a second.

 

“It wasn’t me, believe me, please...” In that sentence has been everything: begging, fearing, asking for help. “I know you think very little of me… I am miserable, but I am a coward. I would not kill a man for nothing, just because I was drunk or anything….” Enjolras’s head jerks and he stares at him. “I would not dare. And if I could, it would be only for saving your life, Apollo.”


	5. Every good thing I've had abandoned me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then while I'm away  
> I'll write home every day  
> And I'll send all my loving to you , my dearest Jehan))
> 
> I am a terrible person, because I've used so many quotes: from the new trailer to the film The Fifth Estate (about Julian Assange), the dialog between Combeferre and Gavroche is from the movie Rozenkrantz and Guilderstern are Dead and also lyrics from the song Walter Reed. I am not even sorry, though I should be(
> 
> P.S. I haven't checked my spelling, sorry(

When something is ruining, it hurts. When something is ruining in front of your eyes it is a terror. When something, incredibly important, is ruining in front of your eyes and you can do nothing it is catatonia. 

 

In this particular case that something is their life. Their friendship. 

 

Grantaire’s eyes are slowly catching the small parts of the reality. Courfeyrac is trying to catch the attention of the Amis. Cosette’s beautiful eyes becoming dark; the sparkle of the disaster is invading her gaze. Combeferre is talking with his gentle voice. And Jehan. His look and the understanding in it. And maybe the hint of fear.

We all know that when we are in danger there are two possible scenarios of our brain work: a fast decisions making state and panic. The problem is that Grantaire doesn’t trust his mind anymore. 

When he went to smoke, he was so lost in the tangled labyrinth of his own thoughts and doubts, that he barely remembered how he lightened the cigarette, what the weather was like back then and how he first saw the corpse. 

Now, standing in the gloom the cynic…As Grantaire thinks about himself, his lips twists in a contemptuous smile. He is not a cynic. He word “cynic” as Wikipedia gladly interprets for us is a general lack of faith or hope in the human race or in individuals with desires, hopes, opinions, or personal tastes that a cynic perceives as unrealistic or inappropriate, therefore deserving of ridicule or admonishment. And right now Grantaire wants to belive, he wants to have a hope that he won’t be such a piece of a shit in His eyes, like he usually is. 

Around Grantaire starts the movement, but his mind refuses to realize the reality. Some moments later he feels a tight grip on his forearms. The gaze slowly focuses on a face in front. “ ’jolras?”

The young leader of the activist group is confused. And annoyed. Because he feels that he has been betrayed. Or…he simply can’t identify the emotions and feels together with thoughts in his head. A piece of a distant memory flies across his head.

_“How can you stand the fact that even our University magazine is being under the censorship? How can you just live and drink peacefully, when the only one place where we can talk honesty is our Internet blogs, hidden by our nicknames? Why do we eat a beautifully decorated injustice so eagerly? Do you really think we live in a Democratic Society, where we can express what we think, without being afraid that our voices are going to be shushed? That we are speaking against the System. Why, Grantaire? Why don’t you want to fight?” Enjolras, a beautiful marble statue of a warrior, a Truth fighter…No, just Enjolras, looked at the cynic with dark eyes. He didn’t understand why he was wasting his time, trying to convince the drunkard._

_Maybe because you wanted someone to prove you were wrong and the world was not such a bad place. “Because I am drinking peacefully, having my head lost in the oily paints.” His gaze was more or less calm, but his lips twisted, like if he had tasted something bitter and tried to hide that._

_Because Les Amis had appeared because of the political unstable situation in France, the great amount of immigrants, because of Human rights and…No. Because of the golden haired Politics student, who can’t just live and enjoy the life. He needs revolutions, riots, chaos, convincing that all of those would lead to the better world. The revolutionaries, even those whose attempts ended successfully, never built a better society. The History or Fate or hell what else used them as a working force, adding eloquence into their speeches and charisma to their characters. And people followed such leaders right into Death._

_“Truth. Justice. The biggest lies.” Grantaire slowly looked in Enjolras’s eyes. “Two people and a secret. More people and more secrets.” He desperately ran his hand through his dark curls. “The beginning of all conspiracy, of all secret organizations. But if we could find one moral man, one whistleblower, someone ready to expose the truth… That man can topple the most powerful and the most aggressive of regimes and politic situation in the countries. And, this is madness, because some why you have… ” he gasped. “decided that you are that exact man, who has to risk. You are some why sure….” His eyes wondered around Enjolras’s face, looking inside his ember soul. The young revolutionary thought about their future meeting and his own thoughts about breaking down the web-site of the Sorbonne University to publish articles in order to encourage students to see what was going on and why they could not receive jobs after finishing such a prestigious university. And then he looked back at Grantaire and his passion. “that your life means nothing and you can sacrifice it easily. You are wrong!” the cynic grabbed thin shoulders of the student in front of him. “Maybe someone thinks you are a visionary , others will call you a traitor, because you are fighting against the shadow of the country’s power. You can’t change the world, without crashing the System and that…” his fingers dug deeply into the fabric of the t-shirt. “that will kill you, Enjolras. This is just you and your ego! You’ve twisted the meaning of the term “journalist”, you are…You can doom yourself, but there are people who will follow you.”_

_Enjolras got lost in that grip, in that look, in those words and that voice. He realized that Grantaire was actually partly quoting Julian Assange, one of the most discrepant people in modern history, who had made the biggest leak of the secret information. For a second he was sure that Grantaire believed and cared. But that was only for a second._

_But the Artist came to their meetings. Made Enjolras mad and as a result Enjolras’s speeches were more passionate and results more efficient. He saw a mocking smile of the System painted across that pale lips and he wanted to break it, to destroy. To save._

Or maybe not. Maybe Grantaire and his lack of faith was nothing. Maybe it was all because of Enjolras’s character and the time he was living. And because of people he was surrounded. 

Excuse me, I just suddenly remember that, while looking in that ember surface of the soul. We shall continue now. Yes, so, where was I…

 

Enjolras looks into desperately blue eyes, searching for answers. “Give me your hands.” His voice sounds dangerously. 

Grantaire bites his lower lip and then quietly smirks, realizing why Apollo has asked him to do so. A junkie. Of course, what else Enjolras can think of him. Jerkily he rolls up his sleeves and disposes his thin wrists. Enjolras fingers run up the skin as he examines it carefully. It is clean, without any marks. Only paint spots. A deep breath escapes his lips as he nods. And then suddenly, when Grantaire has been setting straight his hoodie, Enjolras notices a small tattoo on his neck. Or rather on the spot of the skin at the bottom of the neck, near the collarbone. There are only four little words, beautifully written.

_In you I trust._

Enjolras freezes, losing the gap between the reality around them and his own thoughts. Grantaire quickly hides his neck, trying not to meet Enjolras’s eyes. 

“Wait, R.” the blond student grabs the cold hands of the Artist once again. “Look at me, please. Tell me, convince me that you are innocent.” Grantaire tries to go away, but Enjolras gently squeezes his hands. “Convince me, like if I was Inspector Javert. Come on, I know you can, you are innocent, tell me that.”

The dark eyes smile sadly. “Convince? I’d kiss you, but considering the fact that you are Inspector Javert…” 

Enjolras sighs and smiles a bit, without any idea what they are going to do.

Behind him Courfeyrac has caught the attention of his new friends at last. But his suggestion about moving to his apartment to the welcome party has been not accepted. The thing about the friendship is that when there is a problem, friends can feel that. That’s why Combeferre sighs deeply and then says.

“I am sorry, but you need to leave.” The not-understanding on their faces could have been funny another time, but not now. “I want to protect you and not to tell the truth, just in order to save you all from troubles. Trust me. Please.”

And he sees the determination on Cosette’s face, he notices the seriousness on the freckled face of Feuilly; the dangerous calmness of Bahorel…Combeferre knows they won’t go, but they have to. Police can do no good for them. 

“Tell.” Eponine’s voice is as strong as a rock. “We have the right to know.” 

Combeferre knows that it is for the best, not to keep secrets between the Amis, but sometimes we hurt just to heal. A philosopher inside him…

“I found a corpse behind our Musain ten minutes ago.”

The sound of Grantaire’s voice is horse. He has made few steps to Combeferre and his pale face is visible in the dim, warm lights. Thank God they are in the other, smaller room of the café: here, there are no waiters, so they can always have confidence for their meetings. 

Jehan’s riddle is solved. He has seen Grantaire drunk and depressed, lost and angry, but never so scared. In his eyes he can’t see hope. 

“That’s you have to go out of here and police won’t suspect any of you.” The voice of the Artist is quiet. “The corpse has our sign.”

Courfeyrac feels a sudden cold hole near his heart. Maybe it is fear. He has find new friends, who has already become very important for him. He feels the need to do something, anything just to help them. He opens his mouth to say something, but the door suddenly opens. Courfeyrac turns on his heels jerkily and sees a figure of a man. He doesn’t know him, but the terror on his friends faces make him feel that there is no air in the room and his bowtie squeezes him. Some moments later he realizes that Jehan grabs his hand. 

 

_Baby I've lost the will for fighting  
Over everything.  
Well there's a few things I gotta say  
And make no mistake, I'm mad…  
'Cause every good thing I've had  
Abandoned me._

 

Miles away from the café walks in a hurry a small and skinny figure of a gamin. I think you’ve heard what this term means. This boy considers streets as his home. It has made him a grown up man in the age of 8 and now, being a 14 year old he is capable for everything. 

This little fellow is called Gavroche. He has blond hair, but it is almost always dirty and dépeigné. It works for him actually. His eyes are very lively. The rain starts pouring down at him and…

 

Ah, I suddenly remembered the story about how Combeferre and Gavroche met. It’s a lovely story, actually.

 

_One afternoon Combeferre was walking through the big shopping centre. He bought Enjolras a new pajamas, going to put them silently under his friend’s pillow (they were and are flatmates), just because Enjolras never minded in which cloths he was sleeping (and where he is sleeping, usually using his tables, books and laptop as his bedroom). Although all of his cloths were always clean and neat._

_Lots of people were hurrying or walking or running, holding hands near him. Teenagers in eccentric cloths, rich blondies in ridiculously expensive dresses, old ladies, students in converse and lots of kids. Combeferre loved people. He loved to listen the pieces of their conversations and made a whole story in his head, while he was out. The rumble of the people’s river made him calm somehow._

_As he reached for the elevator and waited for the glass door to open he heard a sound of a person running, though it was still a distant sound. Combeferre stepped inside and the door almost closed as he heard a quiet “shit” from the other side. The student quickly put his umbrella between the two halves of the elevator door to prevent the closing process. Second later he saw a bush of blond curls and sparkling eyes._

_“Hey, thanks.”_

_Yes, it was obviously Gavroche. Combeferre pulled the button “1” and they rushed down until the elevator made a strange noise and suddenly stopped, turning off the lights._

_For a second they reminded silent._

_“Shit.” That time it was Ferre._

_The teenager tried to push the buttons again. No answer, because there was no power._

_Two people looked at each other._

_“Hope you are not a pedophile and that was not planned.” Gavroche suspiciously looked at the dark silhouette of the student._

_Combeferre smiled and sighed. “No and no. My name is Combeferre, by the way.” The shook hands and but he didn’t tell him his own name. Well, I’ve already told you that this boy is Gavroche, so I am going to use his name now._

_Five minutes passed and they were watching each other, analyzing._

_“Do you play questions? Fancy a game?” the boy asked, watching Ferre easily as his eyes got used of the darkness._

_Combeferre sat on the floor and stretched his legs. Second later Gavroche sat opposite._

_“How to play that?” the student titled his head, hiding a smile._

_“You have to ask questions.” Gavroche took out his chewing gum._

_“Statement. One…zero.” Combeferre smirked, watching the quick reaction on the kid’s face._

_“Cheating.” Gavroche twisted his lips, chewing his bubble gum._

_“How?” Combeferre leant his head against the glass surface of the elevator._

_“I haven’t started yet.” Too late he realized his mistake._

_“Statement again. Two – zero.” Combeferre looked innocent._

_“Are you counting that?”_

_“What?”_

_“Are you counting that??” Gavroche repeated his question with an annoyance in his voice._

_“Foul. No repetitions. Three – zero. Sorry, Gavroche, I am a student and I have interesting friends. So, game is on.”_

_It took Gavroche a few questions to get used of that stranger who knew how to play his game even better than he did. Damn._

_“Who starts?” Gavroche asked after a pause._

_“Ehm, I sup…”_

_“Hesitation. One – two.” Gavroche grinned as Combeferre nodded defeated._

_“Whose go, then?”_

_“Why?” Gavroche’s face became confident._

_“Why not?”_

_“What for?” his face suddenly darkened._

_“Foul, no synonyms. One…all.” Combeferre smiled warmly._

_“What’s in God’s name we are even doing here, in this elevator?”_

_“Foul, no rhetoric. Two..one.” Ferre laughed quietly as he noticed Gavroche’s face._

_“What does it all add up to?” Gavroche leant forward with an excitement in his eyes._

_“Can’t you guess?”_

_“Were you addressing me?” Combeferre crossed his legs, feeling rather chill in his light brown jacket._

_“Is there anyone else?”_

_“Who?” Gavroche suddenly asked._

_“How would I know?”_

_“Why do you ask then?”_

_“Are you serious?” Combeferre’s eyes smiled._

_“Was that rhetoric?”_

_“No. Oh…” he sighed, losing a game._

_“Statement. Two all. Game point!” Gavroche clapped his hands._

_“So you think you are winning the game?”_

_“What?”_

_“Are you deaf?” the student sighed._

_“Yes or no? Is there a choice?”_

_“Is there God?”_

_“Foul! No non sequiturs! Three…two, one game all.”_

_“What’s your name when you are at home?” Combeferre suddenly remembered that he didn’t know it._

_“When I am at home?” Gavroche pointed on himself._

_“Is it different at home?”_

_“What home?” his voice suddenly sounded strange._

_“Haven’t you got one?” some why Combeferre already regretted asking that._

_Gavroche looked away. “Why do you fucking ask that?”_

_“I am sorry.” He answered sincerely._

_“Match point.” Gavroche smiled sadly._

_“You win. Mind me asking you to talk with me about that?”_

_Teenager in a hoodie was looking away, not looking at Combeferre. Then he slowly turned his head. “Not your business. After all, what you know about such people as I am? Mhm? Only what you are reading in your expensive student books. Have you ever been beaten by the parents? Have you ever been convinced to steal??”_

_Combeffer’s chocolate eyes became sad and he reminded silent. He had problems with his divorced parents and his sick mother, when she didn’t recognize her own child. But it was history, his pain and his burden. And that little boy needed to be heard._

 

And right now that smart teenager is walking down the street in order to visit his friends at Musain. He is already late, but he could come earlier. Sadly enough, but he has already missed all the fun there.


End file.
